


a glimpse of bliss

by charizona



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3264746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've never been more ready to disappear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a glimpse of bliss

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by St. Patrick by PVRIS. (Aka, my go to song for these two when I like to think post-412 thoughts). Also, inspired by [this](http://cheesetalking.tumblr.com/post/107708970274/its-her-turn-to-say-did-you-miss-me) lovely piece of fanart. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

_You give me something to think about that’s not the shit in my head._

 

.

 

You sit on the corner of a bed in a cheap motel room, rotting walls surrounding you and the drone of a buzzing TV loud enough to echo through the walls. You’re somewhere in the Midwest -- you’re not even sure where exactly because it’s been awhile since She’s given you an update. The last whisper in your ear had been a location, the Park Motel greeting you when you’d stepped off a bus in the middle of nowhere.

You haven’t been to New York in weeks and the homesickness almost aches.

It really can’t be called homesickness, mostly because you don’t have a home. The closest thing to home is that loveseat in Harold’s library, but you haven’t stepped past the caged gate since you walked out for the last time a few months ago. A kind of odd homing feeling tugs you back now and again, but it’s similar to the serenity you’d felt in the psychiatric facility, and it’s just not quite for you.

Another place close to home is Sameen’s apartment, due to the fact that she despises you every second you spend inside of it. You’re almost sure that the loathing isn’t genuine, that you’ve caught her not glowering at you on occasion, and maybe, the light beer that had been in her fridge the last time, right next to a variety of grenades, had been for you.

Wishful thinking.

The mattress beneath you isn’t pleasant. You sigh, leaning back to tug off your boots and drop them on the floor unceremoniously, loudly enough that you hope your neighbors hear the thump of it over the television.

Resting your hands on the edge of the bed, you sit and wait. Usually, She tells you what to do by now, but as of late, you’re going in blind, making the next moves of the game on your own accord and without Her help. It’s a bit unsettling for Her to be so quiet when she’s usually so forthcoming. You’d never pegged Her as being shy.

You fall back into the cushioning (or lack thereof), hair spiraling around your head, and stare at the ceiling. Dust mites pollute the air and spin at the disruption in the atmosphere of the small room, your eyes focusing and unfocusing on the dreary, faded wallpaper. It’s peeling.

“What is Sameen doing right now?” Your voice comes out quieter than you thought it would and you hold back the urge to clear your throat. You know that you were heard.

_Asset location 40.769730, -73.976570._

You have the coordinates of the library and Sameen’s apartment memorized and this is neither. Your hand drifts to your stomach as your eyes drift close, imagining. “Who’s with her?” You like playing this game. When you were a kid, the others in your classes got frustrated with games like these, but you were the only one who could guess for hours, going off of what small hints were given. Nothing works like trial and error.

_Asset with “Bear”._

“Central Park, then,” you murmur, pressing your head into the bed. You let yourself see the scene, imagining Shaw in black head to toe, tugging the dog along a path and almost smiling. You can’t quite get the right expression in your mind; you’ve never seen Shaw smile.

You open your eyes when She speaks in your ear once again, this time with new coordinates and a new mission, tugging your consciousness away from dog walks and toward a relevant number. You sit up, listening intently to directions, to what she’s giving you, and realize that it’s not much to go on. Smiling to yourself, grateful to hear Her in your ear, you know that you love puzzles.

Sitting on the corner of a grungy motel bed, you tug your boots back on and push Shaw to the back of your mind.

 

.

 

You sit on Shaw’s couch and try not to wince.

The first time you’re back in New York in a long while and, well, you’re certainly making an impression. You’d gone to the library first, but a few steps up and you’d realized that what you needed wasn’t a good night’s sleep, but a few stitches. You’d backtracked without saying hello to Harold and his lapdog (both of them) and stumbled your way down New York City streets.

And ended up here. Leaning in Shaw’s doorway and trying to look relatively okay didn’t turn out well, especially when you went to take a step and practically fell on her. She’d dodged out of the way to save the beer in her hand and you’d stumbled into a wall. The beer sloshed out anyway. Your head still hurts from the edge of the coat rack.

“Stop moving,” Shaw tells you, like it’s easy to stay still while someone stitches up your side without any anesthetic.

“Yes, doctor,” you mumble, mostly because you’re very, very close to passing out. Shaw looks really nice now, though, dressed in oversized pajama pants and a tank top, the latter sticking to her skin and molding to her, not leaving much to the imagination.

There’s a sharp pain in your side and you jerk, your drifting eyelids fluttering open. When you glance over at her, your jaw clenched, you swear you see the ghost of a smile cross her face before she’s the picture of concentration once again, looking intently at your side. You study her face a moment, taking in the pulled back hair and the chiseled cheeks -- you wish you were a little high right now. It’d give you a good excuse to say things that crossed the carefully crafted line that somehow appeared between the two of you in the last few months.

Shaw reaches for a pair of scissors from the table and snips something before leaning back to admire her work. You can tell she’s admiring because she lifts her eyebrows in appraisal, pointedly doesn’t look at the expanse of skin surrounding your wound (you’d taken off your shirt two hours ago), and nods to herself.

“And what are the good doctor’s orders?” You somehow manage to speak, although the pain flaring up your side is infectious, crawling up your fingers and down your legs and you’re sure if you moved at all right now, you’d be asking for trouble.

Shaw reaches forward and presses two fingers against the stitch, digging in a bit and making you flinch. She looks up but doesn’t pull her hand back. “I’ll put a bandage on this. Keep the wound dry. Change every seventy-two hours.”

You nod, biting the inside of your lip. The couch shifts beneath her when she gets up and gathers the supplies; you suddenly feel like something’s missing as you watch her retreat around the corner to put it all away in the bathroom.

You sigh, attempting to lean back into the cushions. “Do you have anything to drink?”

Her voice drifts from the other room. “You’re not touching my liquor.” It’s stern and harsh and you find yourself wondering how long it takes her to fall asleep. By the time she’s coming back to the couch, you’re sure that you’d be able to get yourself off of it and find the booze while she’s asleep, provided Shaw goes to sleep at some point.

“I like a girl who knows her drink,” you tell her, cracking a weak smile as you add a little of your old twang. You’re uncomfortable and sweating, determined to make Shaw ten times more uncomfortable with one-liners and half-hearted flirting.

That one didn’t even get you an eye roll.

She settles beside you again and readies a bandage. After a moment, she turns back toward you and her hands come at you slowly, like she’s telling you to get ready for the pain without actually saying it, for which you are grateful. You’re a bit more prepared this time when there’s a long pressure on the site of the wound, letting out a long breath as she slides her fingers up and down to make sure it’s on tight.

Shaw looks up at you, gaze flickering to your lips. It’s nothing softer than you’ve seen, nothing different, but you don’t really want to kiss her. Not like this.

“Like what you see?” It ruins the moment and Shaw shakes her head gruffly, shifting back.

Shaw gets up and stretches; you don’t even try to hide the way you blatantly look her over, your gaze zeroing in on the patch of skin exposed where her shirt rides up as her arms go above her head. She catches you and snaps to attention, pulling her shirt down and stretching the fabric.

She turns on her heel. “I’m going to bed.” She looks back at you, brown eyes void of anything other than annoyance. It’s what you’re used to and it’s comfortable. “You have a place to stay tonight?”

You know that you’re in no position to be leaving in the next few hours and she knows it, too, so you shrug. “Oh, you know.”

Shaw nods, like she does. “My couch is free.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Shaw’s gaze hardens and she glances toward the kitchen. Good, you know where to start the hunt for the liquor. Finally, Shaw settles on you again as her fingers curl around the corner of the wall. “Well, think harder.”

You know what she’s doing. You lean back and look as comfortable as you can. “Goodnight, Shaw.”

She leaves without a word and you’re finally alone, the pain buzzing underneath your skin as you move. You let out a shaky breath as you finally allow yourself a look at the stitches, prodding gently with your fingertips. It hurts, everything hurts, and you can’t even lay back on Shaw’s horrible couch without the hurt sinking into your bones. It’s a bitch to get shot, you decide.

You sit on Shaw’s couch and think about her in the other room, but mostly, you think about the burning pain in your side. And you fall asleep.

 

.

 

You sit on the edge of Sameen Grey's counter, although it's not her nails that mark up and down your thighs.

Would Sameen Grey be into the unexpected late nights, the bruises, or the way Shaw is currently digging her fingers into the flesh behind your knee, making your breath stop short? You're not sure.

But it was Shaw who'd opened the door with a football game playing on the television in the background, a beer in her hand, and a scowl on her face. And now, it's Shaw whose lips leave marks across your collarbone, imitating the constellations as her teeth nip and tug at the skin she finds there. You revel in it, clawing at the skin of her back through the thin tank she's wearing.

The beer sits forgotten on the coffee table.

You hadn't arrived hurt, as many times as you had before, and you'd come because you needed somewhere to stay. It's hard finding somewhere decent so late in the night and, really, who are you kidding? You'd take Shaw's couch over a hotel bed any day, mostly because it smells like her and if you hold your breath during the night, you swear you can hear her snoring. At this point, that couch is more of a friend to you than Shaw is.

When she’d opened the door, it’d been you that had brushed past her without a word and beelined for her fridge. The beer was cold down your throat and even colder on your split lip (does that count as hurt?) and she’d regarded you evenly, sipping at her own drink and no longer paying attention to the game.

“You should call next time,” she’d said.

You’d raised an eyebrow and crossed your legs on her kitchen stool. “Next time?”

You’d heard the deep sigh, even from across the room. The clink of the beer as she’d put it down on the glass table and the squeak of the couch as she’d gotten up. You’d rolled your head back and tossed hair over your shoulder as she’d made your way toward you. When she’d kissed you, it was like starting off right where you’d left last time, although she’d pulled at the broken skin of your lip once, you think, just for the thrill.

It’d been a short trip towards the bedroom, but she’d stopped and shaken her head. It was even shorter toward the kitchen counter and now here you are, her teeth on your jaw and the sounds of the football game in the background.

You gasp when her hands leave your thighs and almost violently rip off your bra; you can hear the snapping of the clasp. Taking a breath, you catch her gaze and stare into dark, predatory eyes. "Someone's eager," you point out.

She puts a hand between your legs, cupping you through thin fabric, and applies the smallest amount of pressure, enough to make your eyes roll back and your elbows go weak; it's getting harder and harder to hold yourself up. When you open your eyes again, she's as close to smiling as you've seen her. "Now who's begging for it?"

You shift, reaching a hand up and weaving it through her hair, tangling your fingers through her ponytail. "Shaw," you manage, each word becoming increasingly difficult, "fuck me."

She doesn't need to be told twice, unlike you, who sinks into pleading demands like you're made for it. She hooks her fingers around your underwear and casts it aside, leaving red lines down your legs in her wake before her mouth finds your chest and her hand wet heat.

She slips two fingers inside of you and doesn't mess around, using her entire body to push inside, your nails digging at her scalp. Your legs wrap around her waist and you're on the edge of the counter, the corner of it pressing into flesh harder with each move of Shaw's hand.

You fall apart wrapped around her and you wouldn't say out loud that she catches you, but she holds you for a long moment, breathing hard against your breast. She wipes her fingers on the inside of your thigh and you untangle yours from her hair, bringing her closer for a messy kiss. She doesn't respond much, the air thick on your lips when she pulls back just a bit to take a few breaths. Your sticky forehead plasters against hers and for just a moment, you wish you could be frozen in time.

She pushes off of you seconds later and you scoot back on the counter, watching her go over to the couch and erase the taste of you with the taste of lukewarm beer.

She spares you a glance, where you're still sitting on the counter. "You should get dressed."

You sit on her counter and nod, remembering the feeling you'd had just moments ago and wish it hadn't gone away.

 

.

 

You sit in the abandoned subway station turned headquarters and the most you feel is numb.

Maybe that’s how Shaw felt, all the time. A muted sense of feeling, empathy nonexistent. You can’t really feel your legs and you wish that you couldn’t feel the pain ripping through your chest. It’s different than a bullet wound, but still eerily similar, a projectile path inching its way like fire, like a parasite, like, well, intense emotional feeling.

You don’t let yourself think of other synonyms.

The dog is sitting in his bed, head down, and you wish it were that easy. Closing your eyes, it’s easy enough to imagine Shaw standing next to Harold’s array of computers and uttering some snarky comment. Easy enough to see her doing push ups in the corner, like she’d been confined to doing since her cover was blown. Easy enough to imagine her eating her regular on the bench she’d been handcuffed to not two days ago.

Dark feelings, hard feelings, churn in your stomach and you kind of want to throw up. They cut like knives, reminding you of what you’ve lost, and you’re itching to move and go after Shaw because deep down, you’re sure that she’s unconscious somewhere, hooked up to a machine that’s keeping her alive.

At least she’s alive. Which, you’re sure of, despite what She’s told you, despite the looks Harold’s given you.

You can hear their voices in the subway car, hushed. John’s is strained and similar to the way you guess yours would sound if you tried to speak. Your throat is still raw from screaming. Harold’s is more sure, stable, and you wonder how he does it. You’ve broken down numerous times, flawed mechanics, but he’s always been able to push through.

And Shaw. She, too, has nothing flawed in her schematics, despite her own thoughts and yours, occasionally.

You sigh. It’s shaky and you can practically feel the lack of relief that comes with it. You’re scared, you always have been, but right now you’re the most. Fear plunges you inside yourself and your brain doesn’t work as fast as you want it to.

You keep seeing Shaw in your head. Her body flinching as each bullet tore into it, but there’s another face that occupies your thoughts.

“What’s her name?” Your voice is a whisper and you swallow. “The one working for Samaritan.” You remember your meeting with Jeremy, the click of a _go-getter’s_ gun behind your head as you’d held Lambert in a similar position. “Martine something.”

_Samaritan operative identified as Martine S. Rousseau. Alias._

You’re grateful for the Machine in your ear. You look straight at the webcam on one of Harold’s computers and offer a small smile. Then, you press your lips into a straight line, folding your hands into your lap. The weight of the gun in your hand is reassuring as you imagine shooting Martine through and through, over and over again. It helps for incentive.

“Root,” Harold says, breaking you out of your thoughts.

When you look up at him, the tears gathering in your eyes spillover and fall down your cheeks. You see something like pity in his eyes and you’re quick to wipe them with the back of your hand, sniffing loudly.

“It’s up to you,” John tells you, the hard edges of his face looking more like stone than you’ve ever seen them. “Where we go next.”

“I don’t believe direct action is the best route,” Harold admits, looking at the two of you gravely. “Mr. Reese believes otherwise.”

“She’s alive,” you say, your voice betraying anything your face and posture already didn’t. “I know it.”

Harold doesn’t say a word, but you know that you’ve already won. It doesn’t take him much convincing, to let the two of you do as you will, but this is a mission for Shaw. You know that when it comes down to it, you’ll do whatever it takes. You sit in the corner of the station as John readies his arsenal, preps his grenade launcher, and your hand curls around the armrests of the chair you’re sitting in.

The black nail polish is gone. You’d lost it and hadn’t had time to repaint.

John comes up to you and looks like he knows everything, even the dark pain that has somehow settled itself inside of your chest. You remind yourself that he’s gone through this before, although not in the same way. Something tells you that you’re more similar than you’d like to believe, but you push it away for another time. Another time when Shaw can be here to judge and make assumptions.

He has a rifle strapped around his shoulders. “Ready?” He holds out the black mask you. You’ve never been more ready to disappear.

You take one last moment to sit before pushing yourself to your feet. “Let’s go.”

 

.

 

You stand with a gun to Martine Rousseau’s head and something stops you from pulling the trigger.

Something, someone, what’s the difference?

Your heart feels cold and your gun hand shakes as she stands next to you, staring you down. Looking no worse for wear. Looking like she’s just been on a vacation for the last few very long months while you’ve been searching the entire goddamn country for her, killing several people who stood in your way.

“Root,” she says. You’d longed to hear her say your name for so long, during so many nights. You’d spent time remembering how she’d breathed it out while tangled in the bed sheets, or how she’d growled it almost everytime she saw you as a greeting disguised as relief. You’ve wanted to hear her say your name for so long and now that it’s happening, it can’t be.

You shake your head and refuse to look at her, instead looking at hardened, emotionless brown eyes. The same ones you’ve been searching for a very long time. “You’re not here,” you whisper, hand steadying when Martine grins, red lips curling into a crude smile.

“Root,” Shaw says again, too close to you. You can feel her body heat. But you’re sure that she’s not here, can’t be, because the last lead had taken you and John someplace where there was a lot of blood, too much blood, and it was hers. So, in theory, she can’t be real.

You close your eyes for a second longer than it takes to blink.

“I’m here,” she tells you, hand ghosting over your own, like she wants to take the gun.

“I’m going to kill her,” you tell the voice, whether or not it is Shaw. You need to say it out loud, mostly because now that you have the chance, you don’t really know if it’s going to happen. If it should.

Martine, wisely, stays quiet. Shaw stills beside you, taking a deep breath. “You know that’s not how we do things.”

“She killed you,” you almost scream, shaking your gun hand with a ferocity that makes Martine flinch. Good. You’d always admired the way you yourself had been able to stare down a gun, and you’re glad that you don’t share the quality with Martine. You’re glad that you can share her, even with self doubt crawling up your spine.

“For God’s sake,” Shaw starts, stopping suddenly as though biting her tongue. It reminds you too much of that day, of that kiss, the look she’d given you. “I’m _alive_ , Root. I’m right here. John’s going to be here in a second and he’s going to cuff this bitch and we’re going to go.” Finally, you look at her and see her staring back, hard. You tear your gaze away when you see a slight movement from your captive, tightening your hold on the gun, Shaw’s gun, one you’d taken from her apartment.

It can’t be real.

“Okay?” Shaw sounds irritated more than anything, but there’s a softness.

Is it?

John stops in the doorway. “Shaw,” he breathes, and it all comes crashing into you, a tidal wave of the feelings you’d experienced for the last few months.

It’s the last thing holding you back from killing Martine and you crook your trigger finger, letting out a breath, just as Shaw lunges for the gun in your hand. The shot goes wide, Martine bolts, and Shaw’s arms are around you and you’re finding it entirely too difficult to breathe. She’s holding you from behind; you feel the press of her forehead into the space between your shoulder blades as you shake, the gun falling to the ground after she gets it from your hands.

Distantly, you hear John. “I’ve got her.”

“Me, too,” Shaw mutters into your back.

“Sameen,” you breathe, leaning into her. You feel her relax, only slightly, although she keeps a nice grip around your middle because you’re still shaking.

She leans into you. “Did you miss me?”

You stand in Shaw’s arms and think of all the ways _miss_ is an understatement.

 

.

 

_I know you’re gone now, but I still wait for you._

 


End file.
